


Wincest Songfics

by wincestplease



Category: SPN, Supernatural
Genre: Brotp, Incest, M/M, May contain spoilers, Season 1, standford!era, weecester
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-04
Updated: 2013-12-04
Packaged: 2018-01-03 11:58:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1070217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wincestplease/pseuds/wincestplease
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a collection of songfics I wrote for my blog I-will-write-for-you.tumblr.com at request! Decided to post 'em here c: I hope you enjoy !</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wincest Songfics

**Author's Note:**

> A little of a headcanon c:

The motel room was silent, but both boys were wide awake. In fact, Sam’s never felt more alert. Yet, somehow, at the same time, he also felt…dead. Disconnected.  
Sam stared at the door. His thumbs fiddled and his heart raced with anxiousness. As soon as Dean went to bed, he was going to leave.   
Leave for college, of course, in California.  
After all, John wanted him gone. He knew it, and Dean knew it.   
So if John wanted him gone, Sam would go. He hated everything about the hunters life anyway. He was a good shot, he had all his fighting skills down pat, but to his father, to himself even, Sam would never be good enough.   
Sure, he’d miss Dean. He’d miss him every single day, so bad it’ll hurt. But it’s not like he’s running away from them. He has a phone. He’ll call. If he doesn’t, he won’t be able to function, without hearing Dean’s voice.  
Stanford was calling his name, the normal life was calling his name. A life away from hunting.   
And he wanted. **God** , he wanted it.  
But Dean….Dean wouldn’t understand, and he hated goodbyes, hated them so much he’d rather sneak out while Dean was sleeping, than do it formally, with tears and fighting and sappy speeches.   
**Now it’s getting late oh**   
Dean feels uneasy. He can’t sleep, can’t get rid of the awful feeling in the pit of his stomach. Sam hadn’t spoken all night, and he’d only brushed it off anytime Dean had tried to make conversation. He kept replaying last night’s conversation, with their father yelling and Sam screaming and Dean being stuck in the middle of all the chaos. He wishes now, seeing Sam watch the door with intense focus, that he could have been brave.  
Dean wishes he could have been brave enough to puff up his chest and curl up his fists and just _stand up to John_ over, Dean watched Sam be broken down by Johns discouragement. And he never did _anything_ to stop him.  
Shutting his eyes, Dean tries to welcome sleep, knowing it won’t come. Not with this worry like a growing, infected wound within him.

**Your shoulders are moving, oh**  
Sam glances behind him, and seeing Dean with his eyes shut, breathing relatively even, he feels a spark of adrenaline. Dean is a light sleeper—most hunters are—so he needs to move now before a nightmare wakes him up, and Sam’s plan is ruined.   
He stands slowly, quietly, and places his pre-written note on the coffee table, tossing his army-green duffle bag over his shoulder, eyes never leaving Dean.  
He looked so innocent while he slept. So peaceful. So opposite of the hard lines and suspicious expression that he wears every waking minute, unless he’s alone with Sam. Then he softens.  
Sam knew that when he wakes, Dean will panic, and wonder where his baby brother is. He’ll worry, and he’ll call around, all before even standing up. His world will tilt, his breath will come out fast, and he’ll see red.   
And then he’ll storm out, without showering, wearing the same crumpled jeans he wore to bed, and he’ll grab Sam’s picture, and he’ll show it to everyone he finds. He’ll think and overthink and he’ll check every motel within a 100 mile radius. He’ll call Sam’s phone, only to find out he’d left it at the motel. Regardless, he’ll leave a million nasty messages, and then he’ll call and apologize and beg Sam to come back, knowing his brother will never hear any of it.  
And when nothing shows up, when no one knows where his scruffy-head little brother is, and when it seems hopeless, Dean will drive the impala back to the motel, the entire time staring at the passenger seat and feeling Sam’s absence like a physical ache in his chest. When he gets to the motel, he’ll sit on Sam’s bed and curse at his brother for being stupid, yelling to no one, and he’ll cry a little bit, either manly-man tears, or tears of a desperate child, and when his eyes are dry from not being able to cry any more, that’s when he’ll look over and see the motel stationary, written on with Sam’s signature scrawl, saying just three simple sentences.   
“I had to go. I love you, Dee. Don’t try to find me.”  
And Dean will scream profanities, and throw the paper on the ground, and he’ll stomp all over it like a child, before stopping, pausing, and picking it up and smoothing it out, tucking it into his pocket like it’s the most precious thing in the world. Sam knew it. He knew how things would go down.  
He wants to go anyways.  
Hand on the doorknob, about to turn it, leaving the world he’s in to join a new, strange one, a world without demons and monsters and hunting, he stops when Dean’s voice interrupts the silence. Because he hadn’t been asleep.   
“Sammy?”  
 **And tell me where you're going, oh**  
Sam freezes as if he’d just been caught doing something illegal and punishable by death. In the Winchester family, going to college might just classify.  
“Where you headed?” Dean mumbles, voice gruff, proof of not talking in a while.   
Sam clears his throat, heart pounding, either from nerves, or from Dean’s voice, he couldn’t say. “Nowhere, Dean.” He turns to give his brother his most convincing, innocent face. “Go back to sleep.”

**Tell me where you're going, oh**  
“You’re an idiot if you think I’m going to believe you. You might be a B+ liar, but I know you too well, kiddo.” Dean looks really old then, and very sad. He knows, by the bag, and Sam’s hopeful expression, where the kid planned to go.   
His baby brother, excited to leave him behind. His Sammy, filled with hope and longing for a world that didn’t include Dean.   
It hurt. It hurt worse than any physical wound Dean’s ever endured. And he’s been through a lot.

**Step foot out of this lonely house**  
Sam takes a deep breath, shutting his eyes and opening them slowly. “I think you know where I’m going.” His voice is low, nearly inaudible. But Dean picks it up as clearly as if Sam had shouted it.  
Dean’s face crumples, and he winces, as if Sam’s words had hit like a punch. “Stanford?” Dean asks. The instant the word leaves his mouth, Dean regrets it. Regrets asking. He didn’t really want to know. Sam doesn’t think he’s ever head Dean sound so scared. Terrified, even, his entire body tense, bracing itself for the news, because it would hurt.

**You don't have to turn around, no  
But tell me where you're going, oh **  
When Sam keeps his mouth sealed tightly shut, Dean pushes himself up into a sitting position. “Sammy…” He swallows. “Look at me.”   
Sam doesn’t move.  
“ _Look at me!_ ” Dean yells, probably waking up everyone in the entire motel. Someone pounds on the wall beside their room, but both boys ignore them. Sam lifts his eyes to Dean’s, almost fearfully, as if the fire that raged in the orbs of his brother would shun Sam from him forever. “Are you going to Stanford?” He’s carefully phrased that expression. He used _are_ instead of _were_ , because he couldn’t stop Sam. He knows exactly how his brother gets once his mind is set on something.   
He couldn’t stop him. He couldn’t even slow him down.   
**Tell me where you're going, oh  
Oh **  
“Yes.” Sam murmurs. “I am, okay? I want to go college. I’ve wanted out of this life, for a long time, Dean.”  
“I know you have.” Dean rasps. He laughs once at himself, a dry sound, because tears are starting to sting at his eyes. “Doesn’t make it hurt any less, Sammy.” He admits.

**Robert keep your hands dry  
Robert keep your hands out of sight **  
“I’m sorry.” Sam says heatedly. He hadn’t meant to hurt his brother. He hated himself for it.   
“No,” Dean smiles a wobbling smile, tears dripping onto his lap. “You’re not.”  
“Dean--”

**Now its getting late, oh**  
“Don’t.” Dean hisses, voice sharp, like a clap of thunder. It softens when he speaks next. “Don’t say you’re sorry, because you’re not, Sam. And I don’t blame you for that. You shouldn’t have to be sorry for wanting to leave.” _But I wish you were._  
“I don’t want to leave _you_ , Dean. I’m not running away from _you_.” Sam says desperately. His hand tightens on the strap of his duffle bag, and for a split second, Dean can see the truth.

**I can see straight through your skin  
To your bones **  
He sees that flash of hesitation, that perfect second of doubt. He reads every thought as they flicker clearly across his brothers face. _Should I stay? Will Dean be happier if I stayed? Will I be happy if stay?_  
Sam knew the answer to all of those questions, and he had made up his mind.   
“But you are.” Dean flinches, brushing away tears. “you _are_ running away from me, and you _are_ leaving me, even if you don’t mean to.” He pauses when he sees Sam’s bottom lip start to tremble, his heart breaking.  
“I don’t want to leave you.” Sam’s voice breaks, and Dean remembers what he’d have done if Sam was younger. He’d wrap him up and hug him tight. He’d tell Sam that everything is alright, and he’d wipe away his tears and continue to hold him until they stopped.   
But Sam’s not a little kid anymore. 

********And I know where you're going, oh****  
And Dean doesn’t care. He’s still his little brother, and he’s still hurting, and Dean’s protective instinct is still there, like always.  
So he walks right over to his brother, wraps his arms around his neck, and squeezes him tight, feeling the way their bodies fit just right, molded to each other. “I know you don’t, baby boy.” He whispers. “I know.”  
Sam holds back like he’s a drowning man, and Dean his savoir. And it’s exactly how he feels, too. “Let it all out, brother.” He murmurs, rubbing circles on Sam’s back. “It’s okay, Sammy.” 

******When Sam’s cries stop, Dean pulls away, to look his baby brother seriously in the eye.  
Sam speaks before Dean can.  
 **I know where you're going, oh****  
“Thanks, Dean.” Sam sniffles. He lets the bag drop a little on his arm, and for a second—a beautiful, glorious second, Dean is sure he’ll put it down and promise to never leave, but instead, he hikes it up higher on his shoulder, holding tight.   
“But it doesn’t change anything.” He continues, voice growing softer. “I have to go. I have to do this, and you know it just as well as I do.” He turns his back to Dean, so he won’t see his tears continue, though Dean sees his sobs shake Sam’s shoulders. “I need out of this life, Dean. I need to be normal.” He pauses. “Goodbye, Dean.” 

******Oh** ** **


End file.
